


The Beast In You

by Bennyhatter



Category: Original Work
Genre: Acceptance, Beast-like character, Beauty and the Beast reimagined, Boys In Love, Child Abuse, Crossdressing, Curses, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fairytale with a twist, Falling In Love, First Times, IT HAS A KIND OF HAPPY ENDING I SWEAR, Jadyen is a broken bitter thing, Judas is a sweet child, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Original Characters - Freeform, Original Fiction, Self-Acceptance, Somewhat graphic deptictions of violence in some spots, Supernatural Elements, Tagged as underage because they're both high school age, reverse werewolf creature thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-09 04:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10403565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennyhatter/pseuds/Bennyhatter
Summary: Judas is a boy trapped under the oppressive thumb of a mentally unstable mother. He tries to appease her, being what she wants in order to survive until he's eighteen. Then he can get away - he's not sure how, but he'll figure it out. Until then, he just has to play along.Jayden is a beast paying for the mistakes of his parents; sequestered in a rotting house in the middle of the woods, living alone and growing colder and more bitter with every passing year. He never asked for the life he's been forced into, but it's his burden to bear none the less, and one he'll bear alone. After all, who could ever love a beast?Basically, it's Beauty and The Beast with a twist. Boom.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CarburetorCastiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarburetorCastiel/gifts).



> I started this forever ago and kind of fell out of it, but I recently recovered it and decided to keep going. I love these boys dearly, and they deserve all the good things in life. So, I'm going to try to give them good things. After I drown them in angst first. They are teenagers, after all.
> 
> I deeply thank CarburetorCastiel, to whom this fic is dedicated and who gave me an incredible last-minute beta read to help me fix a few things. I'm ridiculously nervous to post this, but I hope you all enjoy the ride. It's going to be a bumpy one, but the payoff will (hopefully) be worth it.
> 
> Enjoy~

Sunlight creeps into the room, slowly trailing patterns of warm yellow light across a floor littered with skirts and blouses. Eventually it reaches the bed, where it touches the blankets and, progressing further, begins to stroke gentle tendrils over the curtain of chestnut-brown hair that lays splayed across the stark white pillowcase it rests upon. The warm rays reach the face next—young and round and distinctively feminine, with full lips and long eyelashes. There are hints of strength in the pert chin, and the eyebrows are fuller and a bit masculine, but most who look at the young beauty will immediately assume her to be a teenage girl slowly coming into her womanhood. The skin is fair and pale, with a hint of natural blush in the cheeks; the features continue to slowly come into sharper relief as the night's chill is banished by the sun's warm, welcoming light.

On the small nightstand beside the twin-sized bed, nestled amongst small trinkets that sparkle and gleam when the sun hits them just right, a white alarm clock clicks a minute closer to seven a.m. Sunlight continues to fill the room, illuminating pale lilac walls and dark maple furniture; a dresser and a bureau with an ornate mirror are the only two pieces large enough to take up any space. There are personal pictures taped on the walls and to the spotless mirror, each one of them filled with teenage girls; they all have their arms around one another's shoulders. One girl in particular has long chestnut hair and a bright, wide smile. Her green eyes, the pupils ringed with hazel, are shadowed in comparison.

The alarm clock begins to trill shrilly as the minutes turn over to a new hour. Almost immediately an arm snakes out from under the thick lavender comforter, slender fingers pressing down harshly on the snooze button to silence its piercing whine; obviously someone isn’t ready to wake up just yet. A muffled groan comes from under the blankets and the hand drops limply over the side of the bed, curled fingers brushing across the carpet.

"Julia!" A woman's voice filters into the room, the sharpness of the call blunted by the walls and the door. "Julia, sweetheart, it's time to get up. You don't want to be late for the bus. Come on, sweetie; I made waffles."

The promise of waffles is enough to rouse the sleeping teenager into a more alert state of wakefulness. Upon sitting, the blanket slides down to reveal a pale, flat chest and skinny arms. Sleepy green eyes blink open, wide and vulnerable in such a relaxed state; the last haze of slumber still clinging stubbornly to long eyelashes and gumming up the corners of large, expressive eyes. They’ll sharpen soon enough once awareness kicks in. In his mother’s house, it isn’t safe to let your guard down even behind the fabricated safety of a locked door.

"Coming, mother," the young man--for he is indeed a teenage boy--calls softly. His voice is low and sweet like a dove's song. Everything about him speaks of feminine touches, and yet there are definite masculine traits as well. All of it melds together to form beautiful androgynous features and a gentle nature that is just asking for trouble to find him if he isn’t careful. 

Crawling out of bed and digging his bare toes into his plush carpet, he looks around his room at the clutter--at every small thing he owns and cherishes in the world--the same way he does every morning. With a quiet sigh, he bites his lip and pulls his sleeping shirt over his head slowly. He needs to get dressed for the day before his mother comes to find him; he doesn’t want to deal with the consequences if she decides her darling  _ daughter _ isn’t moving as quickly as she deems appropriate.

Judas Connor Esban is not a girl. No one besides he, his mother, and his father knows this fact—excusing the doctor and nurses who helped to birth him, of course. To the rest of the world, he is Julia Marie Esban, because that was how his mother wants it to be. And because his mother wants it that way and Judas is a good son, that is how it is. Regardless of what it makes him feel and the fact that he knows that in the end it won't make a difference, he still tries to be what his mother has always been so desperate to have.

Turning his thoughts away from those darker paths, Judas begins to get dressed. After pulling on a specially padded bra, he looks through his walk-in closet for a blouse. His mother is old-fashioned in her views--meaning that he doesn't own a single pair of jeans, a t-shirt, or even a skirt that is shorter than knee-length. What clothes he does have however, he at least has plenty variety of. Choosing a floor-length skirt that is made of a flowy copper-colored material, he pairs it with a cream-colored blouse that has an intricately designed flower; it almost looks like it's  been painted onto the fabric, the petals unfurling across his chest and abdomen to form a bright, pretty image. The outfit is simple and yet elegant, so his mother will hopefully approve of it. If she  _ doesn't _ , he’ll find out fast enough.

He hopes it passes inspection. It already looks like it's going to be a lovely day; he'd rather not have to wear a long-sleeved shirt to cover any bruises that he might gain if he doesn't meet with his mother’s approval. There are still several that haven't healed from the last time she got ‘upset’. The one across his ribs aches the most, although they all sting in varying degrees of intensity that he tries to ignore as he continues through his morning routine. He pulls the shirt over his head and lets the soft cotton settle comfortably against his skin. His waist-length hair stays trapped underneath it, so he drags it out and lets it fall in a tumble of shimmering waves to rest against his back. After a moment of thought, he quickly braids it to keep it out of his face. It's always easier to take notes when it's not trying to fall and cover his paper, and there are no bruises on his neck that need to be hidden. For today at least, he'll keep it pulled back.

"Julia," his mother calls again while he's running a brush through his hair to smooth out the tangles, "are you coming, sweetie?"

"Yes, mother," he calls back dutifully before he steps into his skirt, sliding it up until the waistband snaps into place; elastic and soft fabric clinging to his narrow hips and rippling in a way that flutters and seems to dance around his bare ankles whenever he moves. Stepping back so he can see himself in his mirror, he turns this way and that, looking over everything with a critical eye, before he finally nods in satisfaction. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and lets Judas slip away, becoming the Julia his mother has always wished for him to be. When he opens his eyes and stares at his reflection again there isn't anything physically different about him, but he feels different and he knows it's what he needs to feel, even if he doesn't want to. He'll do what he has to in order to protect himself even when it's not going to be enough. His mother wants her little girl though, and he's kept her waiting long enough. Judas brushes his teeth quickly and hurries downstairs before his mother has to come and find him.

A plate of waffles is waiting for him when he stepped into the kitchen. Smiling with gloss-shiny lips, he sits himself the way every young, proper lady should sit and tucks his legs against his chair; hooking his bare feet over the front rung for a little extra balance. His skirt settles around him, almost seeming to float of its own volition for a brief moment before drifting down to rest against his thighs and calves.

"This looks wonderful, mother," he says sweetly as he picks up his fork, trying to appease her before she brings up that he's running a little late. "Thank you. I'm sure it will be as delicious as always."

Lily Esban kisses the top of his head and smiles down at him. One would almost think there's nothing unnatural about it, if they didn't pay too close attention to the flatness of her blue eyes. Judas sees it though. He always pays attention. "Thank you, Julia,” his mother answers back in a deceptively gentle voice. Like this, they may as well be like any other normal American family. The only difference is the carefully concealed darkness in his mother's eyes and the bruises still fading on his skin. “Eat up; the bus will be here soon. You can't be late for school."

"Yes, mother." Cutting into his waffles with his fork and knife—the proper way—he gatherers a dainty, syrup-soaked bite to bring to his mouth and lets his full lips close around the still-hot food. It really  _ is _ delicious, just like he hoped it would be. That means that his mother is having a good day, and for that he's grateful.

Even eating properly with slow, careful bites, he's still finished with time to spare. Even so, Judas decides to go and wait for the bus early. It gives him a few moments to himself while also getting him out of the house just in case his mother’s good mood sours.. Picking up his backpack off of the desk chair, he swings it over his shoulder and relaxes at the familiar weight. It's heavy from the weight of his books, but not so heavy as to be uncomfortable or merciless. After so many years with the same weight for so many hours of the day, he's used to it. He kisses his mother on the cheek, saying a soft farewell, and then he heads for the front door to slip into his sandals. No one ever wears shoes in his mother's house. They always come off just inside the door, and they wait neatly on the mat there until they're needed again.

"I love you, mother," he calls over his shoulder as he ties the Grecian-like sandals. Standing up, he adjusts his backpack and opens the door to leave.  He pauses for a breath before turning to smile at the woman watching him dispassionately from the kitchen entryway. "I'll see you after you get home from work."

"Have a good day, Julia." His mother smiles at him--it’s warm but still somewhat empty--and he returns the smile with a similar one. Then he's out the door and closing it quietly behind him, burying every ounce of the bitter hurt he feels every time his mother doesn't acknowledge him for who he truly is. Not that Judas is that great of a name anyway, really. After all, Judas had been the one to betray Jesus—just like he had betrayed his mother when he hadn't turned out to be the little girl she'd always wanted.

There's no one at the bus stop when he arrives, so there's thankfully no one to see him wipe at his eyes to get rid of the tears that have gathered heavily in the corners of them. Since lip gloss is the only makeup his mother allows him to wear, it isn't like he has to worry about smudging any mascara, or eye-liner, or eyeshadow. His face stays clean, belying the heavy ache in his heart. He tries to muffles his sniffles, wiping at his face again and closing his eyes tightly. "Calm down, Ju," he mumbles to himself. "Can't have you breaking down when it isn't even eight in the morning."

"Talking to yourself again, Juliette?" The familiar voice, carried to him by the wind, makes him look over at the approaching teenager. It's Randy Asher, a junior who's a year above him. A blush turns his cheeks rosy and he has to turn away to hide his reaction at the sight of the other student. He's had a crush on Randy since the first time he saw the black-haired jock. The junior is everything that he isn't. He's strong, and athletic, and popular. Not that popularity is Judas' big goal—really, he doesn't care either way, but he would rather no one finds out about his secret. The last thing he needs is anyone realizing the truth his mother has gone through such lengths to hide.

Randy, though… Randy is  _ cool _ . He's handsome, and nice, and he's the only one who's allowed to call Judas, Juliette. To everyone else, he's just Julia —smart, timid, shy little freshman Julia.

"Don't I always?" Judas replies playfully. He manages to keep his soft voice full of amusement instead of the mild panic he always feels when in the presence of his crush. He's just as much Julia here as he is at home, playing his personal with an ease brought about by so many years of playing his mother's game. And just like the Julia he knows he's supposed to be, he likes boys. It's normal for  _ Julia _ to like boys--it has to be expected--but if anyone ever finds out the truth then there will still be very severe consequences. As far as Judas is aware, there's only a few openly gay members of the community and they aren't always treated the best.

Judas was only six when he realized that he would never be attracted to the opposite sex. Back then, it had been easier to hide the fact that he was a boy. He'd always been his mother's little girl, for as long as he could remember. But when he started to go through puberty they'd had to get creative to keep the fabrication a reality.

"Only when you're being extra crazy." Randy throws an arm casually over his shoulders and rocks them back and forth on their feet. It's a friendly gesture, something completely platonic, but it doesn't stop Judas from blushing profusely.

"Stop it," he giggles while shoving at the bigger, stronger boy. "You're going to make me fall over. My backpack is so heavy." It's a lie of course, but it's his way of flirting. It's also the only way for him to get away with it. Randy is straight after all, and Judas--well, he isn't. It's all a lie, but he can't afford to tell the truth.

_ Why not? _ his conscience whispers in the back of his mind.  _ The world isn't a dark place like your mother always insists. There are still good people out there. You just have to find them. _

"Juliette?"

His nickname makes him look back at Randy. The junior is watching him with obvious concern, a frown marring his gorgeous face. "Are you okay?" the older teenager asks. "You zoned out there for a minute, and you went kind of pale. Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," Judas says quietly. "I just got lost in thought for a minute. Don't worry about it though. It wasn't anything important.” He searches for a distraction and feels relief when he sees a familiar yellow monstrosity approaching them. “Look, I see the bus." It isn't exactly a lie. The canary-yellow bus is slowly making its way up the street towards them. He knows from experience that it's already full of students. As soon as they climb on board, Randy will slip away to go and sit with his friends and Judas will sit alone at the front. After all, Randy is popular, and a jock. Judas isn't anywhere close to his level. By the rules of the social hierarchy in most highschools, Judas has no business talking to someone so far out of his league.

Before the bus stops, the other teenager leans closer. His breath is warm on Judas' ear, sending shivers down his spine. "You look really pretty today," he whispers. Then he vanishes up the steps and into the bustle of the rowdy bus, leaving Judas to follow in a silent daze. He watches the basketball player sit down, already involved in a conversation with a pretty redheaded cheerleader, before taking his own seat and looking out the window. He feels an odd sensation in his chest, like some kind of fluttery feeling he can't exactly name. Breathing deeply, he closes his eyes and tries to block out the sounds of the loud highschool students around him.

Something tells him that today is going to be a very long day.

He isn't wrong. By the third period--which is his favorite Science class--Judas is ready to go home. He can't even remember his first or second classes, which were Algebra and Spanish. He barely remembers if he has homework or not in either of those classes. Thankfully, Science is almost over now. He's ready for his Study Hall period, so he can read and calm himself down into a better state of mind; one more conducive to learning. All morning, the fluttering feeling in his chest has persisted, and now it's spread to his abdomen. It's making him jumpy and paranoid, Randy’s words at the bus stop playing in his head over and over again. His cheeks have been warm for so long now that he feels like he'll never stop blushing and smiling to himself like a lovesick fool.

"Miss Esban, I would like it if you would at least pretend to pay attention in my class." Mrs. Taylor's voice rings out, breaking Judas out of his stupor. The class erupts in cackles and snickers as the other students turn to look at him. Blushing even worse than he ever thought was possible, he looks down at his desk to avoid their judgmental smirks.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Taylor. What did you ask me?" His cheeks prickle, probably turning a darker red from his continued embarrassment. He knows better than to let his mind wander like that; he has no one to blame but himself for getting called out on his obvious lack of attention. At least he can be thankful this scolding won't end with something being thrown at him.

"I asked you for the answer to question number three on last night's homework. Please tell me that you didn't forget that as well." The teacher's voice is sharp and reprimanding, her disappointment in him etched clearly into the soft lines of her face. She's an older woman who's probably been teaching for longer than her students have been alive. She's strict, but she's not needlessly cruel; she's the main reason Judas loves his science class so much if he's being honest with himself.

"No, ma'am," he replies meekly. Still burning from his shame, he opens his notebook and turned to the correct pages. His neat, pretty handwriting seems to mock him as he reads over the question quickly. Licking his strawberry-flavored lips, he looks up to deliver the proper answer. "According to Newton's second law, an object's mass, which is m, when compared to the applied force, f, and acceleration, a, is F=ma." He knows about Newton's laws well enough that he hadn't even needed to read anything out of the textbook last night to come up with the answers he had written down. His mother leaves him alone while he's doing his homework--it's partly the reason he tends to take his time, because otherwise he gets no relief until he goes to bed at night.

Mrs. Taylor cracks a genuine smile at him,  looking as proud as if he's just won a Nobel Peace prize or whatever award scientists strive to achieve. "Very good, Julia. Thank you. Now, can anyone tell me what Newton's second law  _ means _ ?"

Letting his mind wander, Judas turns to look out of the window he always sits beside in this class; it shows a perfect view of Cedar Falls High School's courtyard. The school isn't very big, but it is surprisingly well known—maybe because of its sports teams. It was built in the middle of the town of Cedar Falls, on the outskirts of the city of Windsor. The town is small, with a small population. The main industries are furniture making and logging, neither of which really appeals to Judas in the least. The history of his home town fascinates him, but the quietness of the town itself is somewhat off-putting. They have their fair share of crimes and scandals, but the lack of any sense of adventure is what gets to Judas. He longs to explore the woods and get lost in an atmosphere so much lighter than the heavy oppression in his home. His mother will never allow such a thing, but Judas watches a small flock of starlings dart through the courtyard and he wishes he could be as free as they are; light enough to fly and never having anything to worry about. It sounds like a wonderful life.

The bell rings, startling him out of his thoughts. He gathers his things up quickly but efficiently and shuffles his way out of the room amidst the throng of his fellow students; letting the flow carry him out into the hallway where he bumps into Randy. Surprised, he stumbles and almost falls, but quick thinking from the junior keeps him from ending up sprawled in an undignified heap at the other boy's feet.

"Oh, hey Julia. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

"I'm fine," Judas mumbles, trying to ignore the tingling of his bicep where the basketball player's hand is still resting. Randy’s fingers are warm against his bare arm, the grip gentle but promising to offer support if Judas needs it. Swallowing, he licks at his lips again--a nervous habit he has a hard time controlling--and looks away. "I have to get to my next class, or I'll be late."

"Are you sure you're okay, Juliette? You've been acting a little strange today." A warm palm cups his cheek, turning his head back so he has little choice but to stare into Randy’s concerned brown eyes. His breath freezes in his throat, his own eyes going as wide as saucers. For a moment, he feels like he's robbed of his ability to speak, unable to do anything but look at Randy. There's something in the older student's expression that he can't name, but it both terrifies and thrills him. It twists his stomach up in knots until he feels like he's either going to throw up or, in a moment of bravery or  _ extreme _ stupidity, try to kiss Randy. And that just can't happen.

"I have to get to class," he finally whispers, stepping back quickly to put a safe amount of distance between them. His heart is beating too fast; his chest feels tight and empty at the same time and his mind is a storm of too many thoughts at once. He all but runs to his next class, hugging his binder to his chest and keeping his head down; leaving Randy standing in the hallway watching him flee with that same expression on his face while students part around him like water broken by a sedentary river stone. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyyyyyyyy chapter two!
> 
> Beta'd again by the wonderful CarburetorCastiel, who helped fix my oops spots and get this thing ready ta post! :3
> 
> OH LOOK A NEW CHARACTER ono I may have forgotten to mention that the chapters will flip between POVs. So, here we have Jayden in all of his angsty glory.
> 
> ENJOY

It began as an act of revenge, and a lesson that needed to be learned. His parents horribly mistreated the wrong person--a powerful voodoo priest, they used to tell him, and apparently he was a less-than-favorable one--and they never showed any remorse for their careless cruelty. As punishment, he cursed their only child, growing safe and oblivious inside his mother's womb at the time; small enough that she didn’t even know she was pregnant, and completely innocent of any wrongdoing. And yet burdened all the same. The priest cursed him to be a beast of unfathomable ugliness, something feral and destructive that would be a constant reminder of the ugliness inside his parents’ hearts. Their child would be human only on the full moon so that they could remember the full extent of what they had done. They could look at their son and remember the depths of their greed, and maybe it would humble them. Once the sun rose the next day, they would have to watch him transform back into a monster, and it would bring the message home in a way nothing else ever could.

Their child was born human--a healthy baby boy--and his parents rejoiced that the spell hadn't worked. However, before they could relax and banish their fears, he’d begun to change right in the arms of the startled nurse holding him. Fingers and toes became humanoid paws. Flushed, pink baby skin covered in remnants of afterbirth became thick, dark fur matted to his tiny body; his ears were pinned to his skull and his eyes were shut tightly. The creature had started to cry then—a whimpering mewl that spilled out of a muzzled mouth filled with fangs and two elongated canines; a stubby tail curled unhappily behind the monster and the nurse holding him dropped him onto the bed with a terrified cry. She ran from the room while everyone else looked on in shock and horror at the tiny beast wailing hungrily from between his mother’s ankles.

His parents checked out of the hospital as fast as they could manage, wrapping him in a blanket to shield him from the eyes of anyone who looked at them as they fled with their guilt and the manifestation of their wrongdoings whimpering into his mother’s chest. He was a curse, but he was their son. Their burden to bear. It was their fault, and so they took responsibility--for the most part. They moved to the woods outside of the city, far away from civilization, and there they raised the creature that was their child. They never called him a beast or a monster, but they didn't have to. It hung heavily in the air like the metaphorical elephant that never left the room; it tainted everything with its dark, hated presence. Every full moon became a reminder of their greed and cruelty. It became their curse just as much as it had become his, although he was the one who had never done anything to deserve his punishment.

His earliest memory was of being held by his mother after he'd cut his hind leg. Blood had wet down his fur, darkening it to black, and he'd whimpered as he'd clung to her with his ears pinned back and his fangs bared in distress.

"It hurts, mommy," he'd whined, his words thick and garbled around the saber-like fangs that grew down past his bottom jaw. He was just a young creature, barely tall enough to be level with her hip, although if he stood on his hind paws he could almost touch the crook of her elbow with his dark, wet nose.

"I know, baby," his mother had sighed as she knelt on the ground and gripped his injured leg with careful, gentle fingers. She'd cleaned the gash dutifully, but he'd noticed that she only touched him as much as she needed to and not a bit more. She didn't hug him or stroke down his spine. All her comfort had come from her words, and he remembers being okay with that.

He could stay standing upright on his hind legs, if he wanted to. Doing that made him feel more human, but it also reminded him of what he wasn't--and what he could never be--so he preferred to stay on all fours. It was the only time he ever disobeyed his parents. They tried everything they could think of to get him to stand upright and wear clothes, but he never would. Not unless it was the full moon. Any shirts or pants they forced him into would be ripped to shreds by unforgiving claws and fangs, his golden eyes narrowed and his ears pinned back in displeasure. It became a battle of wills, and it was a battle he eventually won. On the one night a month he didn’t have his fur to keep him warm, he acquiesced and put on the clothing. Any other day, he refused and they had no choice but to accept it.

Once, on one of his mother's bad days, she took a pair of clippers and shaved him down. He'd stayed hidden in the forest for hours, crying his animalistic little whimpers high up in the branches of a tree. He’d only crept home well after the sun set and curled up in the middle of his bed, his eyes glowing in the darkness and his shaved cheeks still wet from his anguish. It had never been more clear to him until that point just how much distress he brought his parents; how much they couldn’t stand the sight of him, even though they were the cause of his disfigurements. He’d fallen asleep chewing on his pillows, fresh tears soaking into the fabric, and in the morning his fur was grown back. His mother had wept when he’d crept to the breakfast table with his tail between his legs. His father had just looked at him without saying anything, something dark and sad in his eyes, and then he’d left to go hunting. He hadn’t come back for two days.

On the full moon, they got the chance to be a happy family. They laughed and pretended that everything was normal while he watched them and longed for it to always be that way. He wished that he had just been born a normal boy, like every other child who got to go to school and do other normal human things that he could never do. For whatever reason, the thought of being like that unnerved him. It made his hackles rise and his tail lash. When his parents would ask what was wrong, he never had an answer for them. Somehow, he knew it wouldn’t help.

Maybe he was just destined to always be a monster. Maybe it was the curse, or maybe it was just  _ him _ . He never figured it out when he was young. He was more concerned with learning to hunt without his parents; tracking animals through the forest and mapping out his territory. As a child, this was his normality. It was his instincts that he relied on the most, not his badly-manufactured humanity.

He remembers how tired and worn-out his parents always looked toward the end. By the time he was eight, they looked like they had aged twenty years. They had still never once hugged him, and they only touched him when they absolutely had to. It was around that time of needing their affection and their acceptance the most--all those times he’d desperately looked to them while they avoided his eyes, burdened by their own shame--that he began to truly hate what he was. He hated  _ them  _ for doing what they’d done; for bringing down the curse on him through their own selfishness and cruelty. And so he began to drive them away.

It was when he was chasing them out of his territory, his fangs gleaming and eyes wild--his savage snarls ripping the fragile peace of the forest to shreds--that he began to realize that he truly was a beast, and that nothing would ever change that.

It’s raining when he wakes up. His tall, furry ears flick as he listens to the sound of the drops against the roof; he slowly drags himself out of his nest of moss and pelts to go and press his nose against the cracked, chilly window so he can look out into the forest beyond his clearing. His house had begun to fall apart in the last five years, but he doesn’t care enough or have the resources he needs to repair it. He also likes the thought of the forest reclaiming the unnatural structure he calls his den, and him along with it. Moss grows up the sides and mingles with tendrils of creeping ivy. Ferns are beginning to worm their way up through the cracked boards of the porch. The roof is sagging in some places, and the paint is peeling away from the walls inside as well as the wooden siding outside. The porch is rotting through, becoming dangerous for a creature his size to safely walk across even from just the front door to the steps.

He doesn't care anymore, although he used to. He took care of the house for a little while after he was alone. It was the last scrap of sanity he had left to cling to—the last thing his parents had left for him after he'd driven them out when he was twelve. That had been four years ago, and it took him half a year to stop trying to keep everything the way it had been when he was growing up. Now he can't be bothered to care, and it shows. He finds the image it creates oddly beautiful when he looks at the house from the edge of the forest. It’s starting to look like something that grew out of the ground, and he knows the day will come when it will fall apart and be completely consumed. Hopefully he’ll be long gone before then; maybe he’ll even be living in the forest the way every wild creature was meant to, the curse of his humanity troublesome only on the nights his fur falls away and leaves him pink and defenseless.

Growling softly, he backs away from the leaking window and turns to the door, hunching his shoulders so he can squeeze through better. He'd grown too big to fit through most of the entryways a few years ago, but he hasn't cared enough to rip out bigger passages. Maturity has bulked out his once-streamlined frame; he's grown to an impressive size, even prowling on all fours. Now he truly looks like a rabid creature with his wild, matted fur and his cold golden eyes. He’s looked into streams multiple times, studying characteristics that are a strange mix between feline and canine; he stopped trying to puzzle out exactly what he was a long time ago. What does it matter anyway? He’s big, he’s covered in dark brown fur, and he’s got canines that look like he stole them from the mouth of a saber tooth tiger. All he wants is to be left alone, and looking like he does, that isn’t a difficult task to accomplish.

He’s a monster, plain and simple. A bitter, angry creature who knows he’s going to be this way forever. His life isn't a fairytale. There is no true love's kiss to break his curse. Once, a long time ago, his mother had said there was. She’d told him the same bullshit story every night, sitting by his bedside while he'd curled up in his nest of blankets; all he needed to do was find someone who would love him for who he was, and not what he looked like, and that would break the curse. He would be normal again, although she never tried to say it like that. He still knew what she meant. When he was a cub, young and impressionable and eager to believe anything, he drank in that story and hoped that some day, he would find someone like that. Then he  _ could  _ be normal, and his parents would love him instead of cringing any time his fur brushed against them.

It was a stupid cub’s dream, and he knows that now. No one could ever love a monster.

The thought makes him snarl loudly enough that the floorboards tremble from the force of his fury. He lashes out at the wall, cutting deep gouges into the weak plaster before he rips his claws free and stalks toward the stairs on stiff legs. His tail lashes behind him and his ears lay pinned flat against his head; his golden eyes are like glittering chips of ice.

His house is two stories tall; an old Colonial style farmhouse with buttercup-yellow siding and white shutters. Inside, it has three spacious bedrooms and two full bathrooms. On the outside a porch wraps the full way around the house, supported by beams that are beginning to crack and splinter. His forest really is swallowing the architecture a little more every year. It's slowly reclaiming the house--and him along with it. Everything is falling to ruin, or maybe it’s just returning to what it was meant to be.

The stairs creak ominously as he lumbers down them, the rough-hewn walnut sinking beneath his weight as he makes his way to the ground floor. The scent of rain and woods permeates the air and he draws it deep into his lungs; the scent gets even stronger once he's out of the house that has become his prison. His paws sink into the wet grass and he digs his claws in, taking a moment to enjoy the feel of the dirt giving way underneath him before he lopes across the small clearing the house was built in and slips into the thickly-forested woods beyond. He doesn't mind the rain pattering down on his hide; darkening his fur further and making it stick to him in clumps that will probably tangle later. Not that he really cares, since his flanks are already flecked and smeared with mud; here and there he's got little twigs caught up in snarls of fur. When you live on your own and have no one to try and impress, why take the time to care about personal grooming?

He finds his favorite stream and stops to take a drink, savoring the crisp, cold water as he laps it up. It cleanses his palate and leaves him feeling a bit more awake and refreshed, which he's going to need if he plans on eating breakfast. The forest is full of all manner of prey animals, but this morning he finds himself craving some fresh, bloody venison. With that thought in mind, he sets out on his hunt.

His territory spans a decent amount of the forest, stretching over miles of trees and several clearings perfect for sunning his fur on warmer days. He has several streams to drink from, and one or two are deep enough for him to submerge himself if the desire to bathe ever does arise. For the moment, he sticks to the stream he's taken his morning drink from, prowling on silent paws and inhaling the multitude of scents that surround him. His home is rich and alive; beautiful in the morning light that breaks through the canopy and dapples across the forest floor in rippling patterns. When he finds a fresh deer trail, he slips between the trunks and follows the tracks to the small herd that grazes in in the nearby clearing, every one of them blissfully ignorant of the beast that watches from the shadows. It will be their loss, and his gain.

A plump doe becomes his breakfast, falling beneath his bigger bulk and meeting her end by his jaws while the rest of the herd bolts in fear. Her meat is hot and sweet, and gamey in just the way he likes. As breakfasts go, it's one of his better ones, but his size and bulk means that he'll need to go hunting several more times during the day in order to properly feed himself. Thankfully the forest is very well-stocked for that, even with his existence amongst the scales and feather and fur. Truthfully, he's the one keeping the populations under control, because until he'd learned to hunt the deer and other grazers had been stripping the woods bare and not giving it enough time to regrow. There are other predators aside from him, but not enough to keep the herds thinned to just the right amount. Now he helps to keep that balance, and his reward is the juicy meat he swallows in steaming gulps, blood staining his muzzle black and dripping from his fangs every time he bares them for another bite.

When nothing but bones and a few scraps of fur are left, he licks his lips to clean them and turns his face into the wind. Inhaling deeply, he pinpoints the few predators he will need to stay aware of and makes sure to steer clear of them as he sets out to renew the borders of his territory. In total he’s laid claim over eighty-five percent of the wooded acres, and some of the grasslands that make up the border his home are close to the nearby town. He never ventures out into that area much, not unless he's re-establishing his scent markers; it won't do for some unknowing human to stumble across him and then run screaming right to the alphas. Then again, do humans  _ have _ alphas? He can't really remember. His parents had taught him things about leaders and rulers when he was still young and they were still hopeful. Most of it is lost to him now, buried under instincts pertinent to his continued survival.

Shaking his massive, shaggy head to clear away the thoughts, he follows along the bank of the creek to the northwestern point of the forest where he plans to start. All around him, birds are singing and mice scurry through the underbrush. A crow caws at him as he passes under her branch, warning the others of his arrival. Other than flicking an ear, he shows no signs of having heard her. The rain is letting up slowly, backing off from a steady drizzle to a fine mist. Here and there, tendrils of sunlight spill through the branches to touch the unfurling ferns; he guesses that in another half an hour or so the rain will be gone completely and the day will become significantly warmer and drier. He enjoys the last of it while it remains, feeling the closest thing he imagines to peace as he strengthens his scent markers along the way.

By the time he reaches the edge of the woods, the rain has stopped and he's already starting to dry. Standing just inside the tree line, he looks out across the open stretch of land that leads away from his home. His eyesight is far better than that of any human--or even any normal animal--so it's easy for him to see the human dwelling that rises in the distance rather well. Here and there he sees wisps of smoke curling from the tops of buildings, and even so far away he can hear the dull rumble and roar of automobiles. Every once and awhile, sunlight flashes off of the shiny metal side of one, throwing out a bright glare, and he squints so as not to be blinded even from so far away.

"Disgusting," he rumbles, curling back his black upper lip in a sneer. His voice is  deep and rasps atrociously, as if he very rarely speaks--or like he's trying to speak using vocal chords that are not specifically designed for the human language. He stands for a moment longer just to glare at the dwellings with hatred burning in his heart. Humans are so disastrous for the environment. They pollute everything they touch and clog up his beautiful streams and rivers with their discarded garbage. Everything they touch, they destroy, and they never once seem to care about the effects they have on the world around them. They take and take and  _ take _ , never once giving back, and they assume it's their right to do so. Greed is what motivates them, nothing else, and he vows that if a human ever sets foot in his forest, he will kill them without remorse so that the world can breathe just a little easier. The thought makes him snarl, spittle dripping from his mouth as his fur bristles in response to his unseen enemy.

With one last hissing growl in the direction of the town, the beast turns and vanishes back into the lovely shadows of his woods, shaking the ire from him like one would shake water from their fur as he returns to his previous task of warning off potential trespassers. If they ignore his borders then it's their life forfeit, and he will take pleasure in their demise. After all, what other life could there be for a monstrous creature such as himself?


End file.
